Torturous Fantasies
by Theater Raven
Summary: A one shot Phic based on the 1943 PotO. Erique Claudin has loved Christine Dubois for a long time. It is only when he discovers the conclusion of a horrid secret buried in his past that his feelings are thrown into conflict.


Author's Note: This Phic contains hints of incest. Reader discretion advised.

**Torturous Fantasies**

He rarely ventured up to the streets, even despite the fact that his home now lay in ruins, but he had to tonight, just once, just one time surely could not hurt. He had awakened in his underground home, unable to sleep due to the visions his dreams were bringing him—he had awakened still able to feel her against him, feel her warmth, feel her breath on his skin as she desirously murmured his name . . . his pulse had leapt when his eyes snapped open to reveal nothing but darkness, the only sounds being that of the distant scurrying of the rats, the soft flow of the sewage as it bubbled into the lake. So, he had arisen, dressing in his gray cloak, pulling the hood up over his head, for it was chilly out tonight and the moon was also enveloped in a hazy cloak, a cloak of clouds, as he reached the street level. Erique Claudin glanced around, left to right, like a child hesitant about crossing the street for the first time, and he instinctively glued himself to the sides of all the buildings, quickly racing beside them as he made his way to his destination. At last reaching the building that was as holy to him as a church was to a priest, he climbed the side of it, crouching on the window ledge, posing like a gargoyle as he peeked into the window that held the thing that made this place so sacred to him.

She was lying peacefully, sleeping, the milky moonlight flowing in shafts across her, highlighting her face and, also, places that made Claudin's heart pound like a drum, his fingers flex and retract like cat's claws, and his breath quicken—a deep emotional stirring occurred down within him, and he was surprised when he felt it begin take on a physical movement down below. Casting his gaze away from the window, he glanced up at the moon. There seemed to be a face in the moon, a face that looked just as longing as his did, and he closed his eyes, inhaling the cold night air, trying to calm his racing heart, wondering why all of a sudden he felt so hot beneath his cloak. He opened his eyes and looked up at the moon—surely he could trust the moon with his secret, for after all, the amount of lovesick people the moon must have seen since its creation was probably mind-bogglingly uncountable.

"I love her," he whispered to the moon, "I want her . . ."

He dared to glance back in the window, to look at the figure lying in the bed, at the moon and shadows that played across her, the tempting curves and shapes that became illuminated by the silver glow, the angelic face that was bathed in the moonlight. He pressed his face closer to the frame, leaned against the cold glass, his breath turning the crystal-clear glass into a gauzy veil.

"Oh, Christine . . ."

He shifted and his foot slipped—he fell, but gripped the window ledge with his hands, fearfully glancing down at the pavement that would have met him had he not caught the windowsill by lucky chance. That was his cue, he decided, to leave, and he made his way safely down to the ground.

As he made his way back through the dark streets, back down below to his rubble-strewn home that had been in such a state since he had nearly been captured by her two other suitors, Claudin tried to fight the memories. He battled hearing the echoes of her voice in his head, seeing her standing there singing for him just before she shattered the utopia of underground by removing his mask, and, worst of all, the visions that had been in his dreams replaying themselves. Oh, God, how torturously wonderful those dreams were! What cursed relief they brought! He leaned against the side of the Opera, against the frigid gray stone that now lay whitewashed in creamy starlight, letting out a hiss between gritted teeth as he fought to drown out the cries of that stirring down below, of it begging him to relieve himself from such brutal physical pangs of desire; he hurriedly turned back to look up at the face in the moon, which gave him an empathetic smile, and then, he retreated to his sanctuary below.

As he lay miserably in his bed on his back, staring up into the darkness, Claudin tried to fight the other memories, the ones he would rather forget. In looking back, it all seemed to have happened so quickly, but maybe that was because of the fact that he had grown wiser, older, since then. Still, that did not make the memories any less painful—of being a young violinist at the Opera, of falling in love for the first time, of the hope that she would return that love, the joy when it was discovered she did, and then, he seemed to drift into a fog, a deliriously happy veil that the single night had been kind enough to weave for them, of the loss of innocence and gaining, in that one action, in that single night, what seemed to be access to the greatest secret and wisest knowledge in the whole world. Yet then came the agony—the realization that she did not love him, that she was just the stereotypical chorus girl, nothing more, and that, after that single night, she disappeared from the Opera, never leaving a word of resignation at the management's office, never to be seen or heard from again. He had never even learned her name—he had fallen so hard and so quickly that by what name she was known did not matter to him . . . and when the dagger of unrequited love stabbed him in the chest, passing through his heart, cutting down into his very soul, leaving its brutal mark, he had vowed to never let himself become that vulnerable again. He had built up a wall around his heart and did not take chances—he was a quiet man, never spoke to anyone, followed orders as they were given, and he felt like, since he was growing older, that at last he was out of the woods of the dangers of those blissful feelings he had only felt once and that he could finally start to relax and look forward to his later years.

Those, of course, had been his thoughts on the night he first noticed Christine Dubois in the vast ensemble onstage from his position in the orchestra pit. At first, it was just a glance, a look at her and a casual thought of, "Oh, that girl looks nice this evening", but then, as the nights progressed, he found himself purposely watching her, sometimes even missing his cue by a few seconds because his gaze was so focused on her. He trained himself to tune out all other sounds, even the sound of his own violin, so that he might hear her voice, only her voice, and it intoxicated him. It, not the wave of the conductor's baton, was what cued him on what to play—it was what made him fall for her first, then, afterwards, came the noticing of her curly blond hair, her figure, her dancing, sparkling eyes, and before he knew it, she had knocked down the wall he had so meticulously built around his heart. It was not long before all the emotions came rushing at him, like an enemy army that has finally defeated its opponent's defense and comes swarming in on the castle in hordes, meaning to take everything within its walls that is worth taking, let the residents of the palace know that the enemy was there. He would find himself awakening in his bed, reaching for her, still in his dreams, sometimes daring to call her name, sometimes a moan of desire escaping his lips, and when he awoke to find the spot in bed beside him cold and empty, filled with nothing but the cool moonlight streaming through the window, he would weep, calling her name—"Christine! Christine!"—and thus the tortures continued, even when he became the Phantom, even after, when Erique Claudin, and thus, the Phantom, had supposedly died . . .

Oh, what a horror it was now—to love her so and yet not be able to come forward, for truly, how would it be to open the door and find a dead man standing on the front step? Thinking these thoughts, Claudin made his way towards the market a few days later, his appearance guarded by a new mask he had fashioned—one that bore a better resemblance to a "normal" face—and he suddenly stopped, physically wearied from his thoughts, to lean against a house he was passing, not realizing whose house it was. He closed his eyes, feeling exhausted to the point of sleepiness, almost, when he heard a female voice next to him.

"Sir, are you all right?"

Claudin cracked an eye open and saw a small, portly woman with curly blond hair that was graying standing beside him.

"I'm fine," he answered, "I was just on my way to the marketplace and got a little tired, that's all."

"Oh. Would you like some water? Perhaps it's the heat that made you tired—it _is_ rather hot out today."

Normally wary of accepting such offers from strangers, this time, Claudin was too tired and too thirsty to argue. He nodded.

"Very well—come inside and I'll get you some."

They stepped into the woman's neatly-kept house. There was a piano in the parlor where they now were, and Claudin had to resist the musician in him that wanted to walk over to it and start playing.

"Wait here," the kind woman said, leaving him.

While he stood there idly, Claudin glanced around, at all the various objects and knick knacks in the house. His gaze fell on a table that seemed to hold several images of the woman's family—one of them in particular sent an eerie feeling down his back, but he could not be sure why. The woman returned with the water.

"Here," she said, handing the glass to him.

He thanked her with a nod, took a sip, and then, indicated the image.

"That woman, right there, the one on the table, in the middle, who is she?"

His hostess gave a sad smile.

"My sister," she said, "Everyone else prefers to forget her, as she was the 'black sheep' of the family, but I can't—she was_ family_, after all. She died years ago—froze to death in a gutter on New Year's Eve. She never married, nor had steady work—the only thing I remember her attempting is a little dabble in the theater, but she wasn't there for even a month."

Claudin stared at the picture, his heart starting to race as he heard the woman continue her story,

"She had a child, but we've never know by whom, never received a name, except to know he was a violinist at the Opera. She never mentioned the details of what happened, either, just came to my doorstep one day—as everyone else, by this time, had forsaken her—and announced she thought she was with child. Well, what could I do? I couldn't turn my own sister in such a condition like that back out onto the streets, so, I took her in, helped her deliver the baby, and, against my offerings, she left soon after. The police found her dead, her child still barely alive in her arms, and they brought the poor half frozen thing to me. She has lived with me ever since."

At that moment, they both heard footsteps on the path outside.

"There's my niece now," the woman said, looking out the window.

Claudin only needed to take one look before horror gripped him—Christine was coming up the path, and, at glancing back at the picture on the table, it all clicked.

"Sir?" his hostess asked, concerned, as Claudin began to double over.

He was promptly sick on what looked to be a very nice Persian rug. The hostess tried to help him, but he refused, hurriedly exiting out the back door so the returning young woman would not see him.

He paced in his underground home, listening to the two voices battling in his head:

_Oh, my God, she's your daughter!_

_But, so beautiful, so pure, so intoxicating . . ._

_And she's your daughter!_

_Think of it—all those dreams, all that yearning to see, to hear, to touch, to taste all that has been denied you, all that you know must surely lie concealed beneath skirts, petticoats, what is revealed under the cover of night . . ._

_Oh, my God, she's your daughter!_

_Just look at her, listen to her—do you think even an angel could look and sound as she does?_

_Get a hold of yourself, man! She's your daughter! You've been committing incest in your head all this time, every dream, every fantasy, every longing—you've thought of what it would be like if she consented, of hearing her call your name, saying she wants you, she loves you, you alone, that only you could make her feel—emotionally and physically—as she does when the two of you are together behind closed doors. . ._

_And can you blame me? She's so beautiful—I love her, I want her._

_See? You're thinking about it now! You're thinking about taking your own daughter to bed!_

His brain kept spinning around and around in circles, like a mad dog chasing its tail, until finally he was so exhausted he dropped to the floor, sobbing. He eventually fell asleep, dreams filling his mind, dreams that, he now knew, were wrong not just because of their content, but because he now knew the connection he held to the person who was the main character in his dreams. He was jolted awake by the sound of his own voice as his ragged cry of longing echoed throughout the cavern—his dream had been so real, and now reality seized him again. He flopped back down onto his back, letting out a tortured scream of her name.

"Christine!"

He sobbed himself back to sleep.

Christine Dubois was dusting her aunt's shelf of knick knacks when she heard a knock on the door. She went to open it and stared in horror. There, standing in the yellow glow the porch light gave, seeming to be a pale moon spirit that had descended down from the moon to roam the earth tonight, stood Erique Claudin. Her sapphire eyes widened; her mouth opened to scream, but then, he spoke.

"It's all right, Christine."

She found speech.

"How did you—? You're dead!"

"As you can see, no, I'm not."

"But how did you—?"

"That doesn't matter."

He moved to step closer to her. She backed away.

"Get away from me."

She saw pain flash into his eyes, his blue eyes that seemed so much like hers, and, though she feared him, pity crossed her heart. The last time she had seen him had been a fleeting glance, when she had been rushed from the collapsing cavern by Raoul and Anatole, her two suitors, as the gray rock crumbled . . . a large piece of it had collapsed atop him, surely crushing him, surely killing him. . .

He reached down and took her hand. She was surprised at his touch—the feeling of his hand was warm, and yet, his fingers felt stiff. When she looked up at him as his left hand was wrapped around hers, she thought she saw a grimace of pain in his eyes.

"I've learned it's called arthritis," he said quietly, glancing down at his hand.

There was a pause.

"Christine," he said.

She glanced up at him.

"I can only do this once."

Very, very slowly, as if he feared she was just another dream image and would fade, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, closing his eyes as he did so, the parental side of his emotion overwhelming his heart. He leaned back, afraid to look at her, but, eventually, he did. She was staring quizzically at him and his heart began to race as the other side, the side he had not won the battle against, the side that was the strongest, took over. Gently cupping her face in his free hand, he kissed her again, this time on the lips, his kiss now that of a lover's, and he pulled back, letting go of her hand, turning and walking down the street into the dark, never to be seen or heard from again.


End file.
